


First Fantasy NaNoWriMo: 24: Kiramista

by SkiesOverTokyo



Series: FirstFan NaNoWriMo Drabbles [24]
Category: First Fantasy (Webcomic)
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Epic Battles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkiesOverTokyo/pseuds/SkiesOverTokyo
Summary: One last battle begins a new path.





	First Fantasy NaNoWriMo: 24: Kiramista

The old man mounted his warhorse, adjusted his hat, black as the thick leather jacket that he wore over battered chainmail, low over glowering eyes, flicked the tinted lenses down over his glasses, to keep the sun out of his old eyes. It was getting more difficult these days to mount this old bastard, the old war-wounds getting to him in the legs, and his side and his arms-he couldn’t actually remember where there wasn’t a wound, come to think of it. His squire stood nearby, carrying his shield, white, but for a single upturned spade in the same black as the rest of his garb.   
He grumpily gestured for it, hefted it onto one arm, and took up the strange lance that had become his trademark weapon, a set of long thin strings along the length of it that turned it from a simple weapon to a devilish weapon worthy of its owner.  
“Bottle.”  
His squire sighed, opened a bottle of bourbon, and poured a glass. The old knight took it, downed it in one, and ran a hand through his moustache, gazed ahead. A mile off, the enemy stood, in battle formation, that bloody dragon banner taunting them from afar in a hundred different places. He was sure that bloody Emperor, and his sidekick, that little upstart Lord Hnifur, barely a decade out of short bloody trousers, were in the midst. Around the two of them, the rest of the ragtag force was formed up in ragged uneven lines that did nothing to make use of the hill, and the high ground they held.   
  
The old man pulled a broken-teethed grin, settling back in the saddle.  
“What a bloody rabble” he growled. “Ah well.”  
He turned to his squire.  
“Go on, kid. Get out of here. Take the spare armour, the coin. Make a life somewhere out of here. Stay out of the war business as long  as y’can.”  
“But Sire, what if-?”   
“Don’t bother looking for me. I won’t be there. Just flesh to feed the crows.”  
The boy nodded leadenly, saluted, turned and made his way back to the tent.   
  
The old man watched him go, spurred the horse into action, and began his last ride forward towards the front of the force. A scattered cheer as he rounded the horse.  
“Now, lads. We will not win this battle. Anyone who thinks we will is a bigger fool that those who remain here. If you want to live, turn and go now.”  
A few people broke rank, turned and ran. The old man spat in the dust.  
“Run and fade. Y’won’t be remembered. We’ll all be dust one day, but some of us will be dust that sticks to the lips of bards, our deeds remembered, futile as they were. People love an un’erdog. T’day is a day for fell deeds! A last stand against the onward march of the Empire! Remember us! For we fought to the last. And remember!”  
He stood up in his saddle, coat flapping, bass-lance held high against the rising sun behind them.  
“NONE OF US WILL LIVE FOREVER!”  
  
He sank into the saddle, turned his horse, as behind, this doomed army, barely two thousand strong, roared in approval.  
“Poor fuckers” he muttered to himself, and kicked his horse into action. Behind him, his army began to move, foot-troops following their leader and his ace-high shield to certain death, horsemen rallying their steeds to movement, as, one by one, they saw their chance for a death worthy of a story. On either side, the trees began to thin out, as they gathered speed, trunks becoming blurs, and behind him, the drummers began to beat out a rolling tom line that seemed to ripple back and forth across the front line.   
The old man smiled, shifted his shield to his saddle, and one last time, took up his bass-lance, the magically imbued item making the simplest touch into a deafening rumble that shook the trees. More a psychological weapon than one useful for battle, but anything to break the spirit of even a few of these bastard Imperials.   
Something moved in his saddlebag, and, pausing, he reached out the bottle of bourbon the boy must have placed there for him. He grinned, despite himself. Absolutely typical of the lad. Thinking of everything. Gods speed him to a better life than the squire of a landless soak.  
  
He pulled the cork out. Perhaps a couple of mouthfuls left. He shrugged, and downed the lot, throwing the bottle behind him, the heat, the old familiar warmth of a warrior, burning through him. He thumped out, one hand just below the pommel, a furious rhythm on the strings, loud as a mountain. Ahead it must be terrifying. Good. Let those dragon-livered little shits crap themselves with fear. Behind him, the din of his men, roaring to whatever gods they believed in, roaring challenges to the Hnifur bastards, the Fayreport Cowards, the whole gamut of Imperial cowards, or else yelling words they hoped some bard would make a song.  
  
One hundred yards.  
A battery of archers opened up, but with the rising sun behind them, it was impossible to aim properly-a few men fell, but more through pure weight of arrows than any skill with arms. The front ranks began to lower spears, unsheathe sword. Above the din, he could briefly hear a man yelling orders too indistinct to hear.  
  
Eighty yards.   
His own men returned fire, the archers stopping dead and letting the rest of the rabble charge through loose ranks, and their aim was truer, dozens of men in the front rank sent sprawling, or screaming in agony into the dirt. Around him, his men steeled themselves for the impact, swords or lances out.   
  
Sixty yards.  
By now, the Imperial dogs had reloaded, and this time their aim was truer. A man next to him was knocked full out of the saddle, sprawled and was gone beneath another rider’s hooves. But not enough fell to stop them, or to lessen the impact they would have on the Imperial front line when they finally charged into them  
  
Forty yards.  
 A return of fire from his own men. The standard of Duke Hoff fell without warning, and the gold and red armour of the towering figure of the Duke with it. There was a note of panic in the signals and yells in the front lines of their enemy, the archers now too close to fire back in the time left to them. Shields up. Braced for impact.   
  
Thirty yards.  
  
And suddenly, without warning, a horn blast, from somewhere near that accursed flag of Hnifur, and the entire front rank began to split. What had once been a tightly packed front line of six or seven men deep was now loose, huge gaps appearing, and in between the men were stakes, driven deep into the earth and turned upwards.  
  
There was no stopping the charge, and, as the front lines collides, it was his force that came off the worse, the old man himself being thrown from his horse as the stupid old beast panicked and came to a crashing halt, crashing into several Hnifur swordsmen, and crushing them.   
  
He got to his feet, picked up his lance, and charged the nearest Imperial, impaling him, pulled out, stabbed the next, and the idiot stupid enough to stand close to him. In the thick of battle, he didn’t see the wings of the Imperial army peel off, and bear down on the hapless archers, who panicked and began to flee, but were ridden down. He didn’t see them turn back, and collide into the back of the rebel army, hadn’t seen his force be surrounded and pinned in place like a butterfly on a board.   
  
All that he cared about, as glancing blows tore rips in the jacket, and cut into his arms and finally tore the lance and shield from his hand, so that he was reduced to swinging a sword stolen from a corpse. He didn’t see the sword that pierced him from behind, the foot that pushed him into the dirt, and didn’t see the blackness take him, as his force were wiped out with frightening precision. No quarter was given, and around him, bodies began to pile, before the Imperials retreated, the field theirs.   


-

  
He woke to twilight, turned over, winced.  
_AH._  
He blinked, managed to push himself up on his elbows. A tall man, dressed in ornate armour was watching him. Thick beard, short, stuck up hair. A  grizzled look. He was sitting on some sort of two wheeled contraption, a rumbling like a tremendous cat.   
_YOU’RE AWAKE  
_“What happened?”  
_YOU DIED, MAN. HAPPENS TO US ALL IN THE END.  
_“Are you…?”  
_DEATH? HEH. NOT EXACTLY._

A neigh from behind, and that dumb bastard horse was nibbling on his hat.  
_SEEMS THAT THE WORLD STILL HAS NEED OF YOU IN A WAY, OLD TIMER.  
_“The impudence!”  
The man astride the mechanical creature waved it away  
_WE…THAT IS TO SAY, THE THREE OF US, APPEAR WHENEVER A WORTHY WARRIOR DIES ON THE BATTLEFIELD. IT USED…TO BE JUST ME, BUT…THERE ARE A LOT OF WARS THESE DAYS, MAN. WHOLE WORLD SEEMS TO BE PLAYING ONE HUGE GAME OF KILL ‘EM ALL.  
“_Who…What…who are you?”  
The figure thought about this, hand running through his beard.  
_THEY USED TO CALL ME LORD HATEFIELD. AS FOR WHAT I AM…I’M ONE OF THE HORSEMEN. I SUPPOSE WITH YOU…WE’LL BE FOUR. FOUR HORSEMEN. AND YOU? WHAT ARE YOU CALLED?  
  
_The old man sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and dusted himself down.   
“I suppose I used to be called…Kiramista. Not that, I suppose, it means much.   
_WELL, MISTER KIRAMISTA. SHALL WE MAKE A MOVE?  
_Hatefield revved the machine, as the old man clambered onto his horse.  
“Eh, guess so.”  
And together the two men moved off across the battlefield.   
“Say” said the old man, “got any bourbon?”  
_SOMEWHERE, I THINK. GOT A LIGHT?_  
“Somewhere.”  
And they were gone behind a bank of fog.  
  
   



End file.
